Celestial
by monarch27
Summary: He's obsessed with uncovering who – or what – he is. But, will his new partner force him to face his humanity? Will she realize that the world isn't as logical as she wants to believe? The truth is out there. An X-Files inspired, modern-day E/C fic.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, all. After a decade of lurking around , I've finally decided to stop just enjoying other people's stories and contribute something of my own. This story is definitely inspired by the X-Files, and it embraces some of the earnest ridiculousness of that show, but I'm going to be drawing most of my characterization/themes from POTO. Though, I'm excited to give Christine the opportunity to kick some ass.

Their first "case" came out rather dark, and I imagine much of the story will enter dark territory. But, I can't resist the call of fluff.

Thank you for reading!

* * *

Christine had been warned about her new partner. He was difficult to work with – too eager to see the supernatural in every case, too sure of his own opinions. He was a loner, an agent on the outskirts of the FBI, a weirdo with ridiculous ideas. "Agent Spooky," they called him. And, on top of it all, he wore a mask. Assistant Director Kahn had insisted she say nothing about the mask. _Pretend it isn't there,_ he'd warned. He'd given no further explanation.

Christine had no choice about this assignment. She was a new agent, young and green despite her training and medical license, and she had to pay her dues. She was to monitor Agent Destler's activities, his performance out in the field. She knew the higher ups wanted to fire Destler, but rumor had it that they feared the EEOC would jump down their throats for cutting one of their only "disabled" employees. It was Christine's job, it seemed, to discredit him. Though no one said it so directly, she didn't know why else she would possibly be assigned to report on this seasoned agent's actions. Regardless, she would report on his investigations as thoroughly as possible. She would be fair and honest. Prove her professionalism and skill.

And she would not mention the mask.

So, as she entered the dim basement office, she tried not to stare at the black leather face glaring from the corner. Instead, she busied herself with arranging her desk. The room smelled like air conditioning and mildew. Two of the fluorescent lights had gone out, slicing a dark line between their desks.

"You must be Agent Destler," she said, pulling pens from her briefcase and straightening them into columns. She was quickly realizing she didn't have much to arrange. "I'm Agent Daaé. I'll be working with you on the X-Files."

"Babysitting me, you mean." His voice resonated through the room, at once disdainful and beautiful. Christine felt sweat blossom under her collar. She struggled to find her words.

"Well. No." She flipped her notebook, pretending to review something. "I'll be writing a report after a few months. But, until then, we'll operate as a team."

"I'm not much for teams, Agent Daaé." He stretched her name into an insult. "As I'm sure you've heard."

"I don't put much stock in gossip."

"But you believe enough to fear looking at me."

Christine cursed inwardly. She raised her face to meet whatever she could she of his. A thin, smirking mouth. Eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows of his mask, like a cat's at dusk. How could anyone's eyes be so yellow? How had he ever been hired if he insisted on wearing that thing?

"I'm sorry," she said, willing herself to maintain eye contact for just ten seconds. "I like to get settled in." Five, six.

"Lying doesn't suit you." He crossed his arm.

And ten _._ Christine allowed her gaze to drop to his desk, which was littered with papers, books, and photographs. She scanned the wall behind him, noting, with dismay, a large poster featuring a glossy flying saucer. She sighed.

"Look, we got off to a bad start. I'm sorry. But we're stuck together, at least for the next few months. There's no need to be so hostile."

Agent Destler stood behind his desk. He was much taller than she'd anticipated, well over six feet, and strikingly thin. He wore a crisp black suit, a gray dress shirt, and black leather gloves. Christine realized her eyes had gone wide, and she forced herself to blink.

"We have work to do," he said, snatching a file from the chaos in front of him.

"Wait, already?"

"I don't know what you think I do here, Agent Daaé, but I assure you that there is always work to be done." He was already walking to the door.

Christine scrambled after him, patting her pockets for her cellphone, her badge, her gun. She regretted her all-natural deodorant. "But I haven't been briefed."

She watched him shake his head.

"I'll explain on the way. We have a long drive ahead."

He kept his back to her, his stride swift and long. In the dark basement hallway, he seemed to transform into a shadow. And, just as she'd been instructed, she followed him.

* * *

He drove like a maniac. Christine didn't know why this surprised her. All other signs were certainly pointing to maniac.

"We're investigating the birth of a possible extraterrestrial-human hybrid," he said, swerving the black sedan around a truck that had dared to drive the speed limit. "Birth and then death. The mother, sixteen years old, was arrested after she was caught stashing the baby in a dumpster. She said it was born dead, but the officials aren't sure."

"Haven't they performed an autopsy?" Christine gripped the handle above the passenger seat window.

"The baby seems to exhibit some startling abnormalities. That's where you come in, doctor."

"Fantastic," Christine muttered. An infant's autopsy, on her very first day. "What sort of abnormalities?"

"I'm not sure," Destler said, his voice cold. "But, the mother's story is she was abducted and impregnated by aliens. She claims this baby is the monstrous result."

"And you believe her?"

"Another teenager in the town is eight months pregnant. She claims the exact same thing."

"I see, " Christine said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. So many years of medical school. So many student loans.

"Welcome to the X-Files, Daaé." She sensed him glance her way. His voice softened, just a bit. "Try to have an open mind."

He clicked on the car's sound system. An unfamiliar aria burst from the stereo. Who _is_ this guy?Christine thought, her eyes fixed on the dividing lines whipping past her window.

* * *

They drove directly to the hospital morgue and flashed their badges at the sour-faced technician assigned to lead them to the body. Christine followed Destler, watching as the nurses, doctors, and orderlies turned their heads as he moved down the hallway. She saw two middle-aged nurses duck into a doorway, crouched together, whispering. Destler kept walking straight ahead, his back stiff, his shoulders pulled to their full breadth. Though he was thin, he looked somehow giant. Imposing. She wondered if he noticed them, all the wide eyes and muffled gasps. Maybe he'd learned to block them out. Both options sent a surprising pang through her breastbone. She tried to push the feeling down. It was none of her business. She had to focus on his work.

Their work, she reminded herself. At least for now.

The click of her shoes echoed off the linoleum floor and steel cabinets. Christine watched as the attendant laid the body on a clean examining table and pulled the sheet away from its face. She inhaled sharply. The child's heads was disproportionately small and irregularly shaped, with ruddy, veiny lumps rising from the cheeks, forehead, and brow. Thin lids sealed across uneven, seemingly eyeless sockets. A severe cleft palate twisted over the left side of his face. She could see to the back of his tiny throat.

She watched Agent Destler's eyes darken and narrow. He turned from the operating table, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched, and thudded his fist along the cabinetry.

"All wrong," he hissed.

"It's very sad," Christine offered, though she'd found his inflection strange, laced with an edge of exhausted frustration rather than righteous indignation. Had he sound confused, or had she imagined it? But hadn't they come expecting just this? "Would you like to watch the autopsy?"

"No," Destler said, without turning around. "There's no point."

He strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Christine and the technician locked eyes. She sighed.

"So, where can I find a pair of gloves?"

It was their work now.

Only for now.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm not a doctor...so forgive me for playing a bit fast and loose here.

* * *

Hours later, after discarding her bloodied apron, recording her findings, checking out with the attendant, and searching every office on the mortuary floor every corner of the floor below that, she found him, hidden in a vacant examining room near pediatrics, pacing in his dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his bony elbows. His eyes looked bright again, too bright. They reminded her, suddenly, of bile. Of infection. She suppressed a shudder.

"What are you doing in here? I've been chasing you down for half an hour," she cried.

"We've been wasting our time here," he said. "We have to go to the girls. The second one might be different."

"You don't even know what happened to the first infant yet."

He stopped pacing and looked at her. Or through her. "It died."

"I just spent my first morning as your partner cutting open a newborn. I'm going to tell you my findings."

Destler barked a laugh. "You're not my partner."

"The FBI says otherwise." She crossed her arms, hoping to look serious, desperate to stop her hands from shaking. She would not let him frighten her.

"We have to talk to the girls. The body can't tell us anything about what happened to them."

"It certainly can. The infant was born at least three months premature. It displayed signs of exposure to amphetamines, PCP, alcohol, and other chemicals – some sort of cocktail ingested throughout its development. There are no aliens, Agent Destler. Just drugs."

"Could you explain every anomaly on that body?" He approached her, growing taller with each step.

"Well, no." She pursed her lips. "But drug and alcohol abuse can lead to unpredictable birth defects, especially in unknown quantities and combinations."

"Or, there could be another factor here. Something more difficult to identify."

He was a maniac. She was sure of it. "It is highly unlikely. There was nothing inhuman inside that baby, nothing otherworldly. Frankly, I think it's ridiculous that FBI agents were called here at all." But he wasn't listening to her. He was unrolling his sleeves and grabbing his coat from the chair behind him. "The baby was born dead, Destler. His lungs, kidneys, and heart were all malformed. He likely died in utero. She didn't murder him, at least not after giving birth."

He met her eyes for a second. She swallowed.

"Well," he said, his voice sudden velvet. "You can give her the news yourself."

He swept out the door, and she jogged after him, wondering how fast he would drive this time, and dreading the months of car rides to come.

* * *

The girl, Natalie Hanson, had been released on bail. They interviewed her on the plush, floral sofa set in her parents' living room. Her parents were out at some vague dinner, which baffled Christine. It had hardly been two days since Hannah was released from the hospital, and here she was, alone, letting strangers into her house. She was thin, ashen, her brown hair pulled back in a limp braid. She held a pillow in her narrow lap. Her eye's darted from mask to pillow, mask to pillow. Christine cleared her throat, coaxing the girl's gaze her way.

"Natalie," she said, her voice as soft as she could make it. "I know this is difficult. But you have to tell us what happened while you were pregnant."

"I already told the police everything."

Christine forced herself to smile. "I know. But now you have to tell us."

"I'm not a child," Natalie snapped. "Don't talk to me like I'm in preschool."

Christine sat up straight and pursed her lips. She hated teenagers.

"Natalie," Agent Destler crooned. "Natalie, you're right, you're not a child. It's time to tell us what happened to you."

Christine struggled to contain her shock. She had never heard a voice like that before. Destler's normal speaking voice was beautiful, certainly, but he had transformed it into something else. Something dreamy and powerful, seeping right down to the marrow. Christine watched Natalie's eyes soften. The girl's whole body relaxed into the sofa.

"That's right, child. Tell us what happened to you. Everything you can remember."

Natalie's eyes were far away. She spoke without emotion, without hesitation. "I was in the woods. Near the burned tree, with the hole in its trunk. And then it was sunset, and everything started vibrating. There was so much light, and a voice. I had to reach for the voice. And so I did. And then I remember floating in the air, then lying down under all of these lights. And there were shadows, like men. Small men. Something was cold on me. Then everything was warm. When I woke up the next morning, I was naked."

Christine looked between Natalie and Destler with raised eyebrows. They didn't seem to remember she was there. Maybe that's why the FBI hired him, she thought. That voice.

"And then what happened, Natalie?" he said.

"It stayed so small. I didn't know for sure. I could hide it. I hid it really well. I had it by myself, in my bathtub, while my parents were at work. It died. So I took it to the mall and found a dumpster. And that's it, really. That's all."

"Did you take anything, while you were pregnant?" Christine asked. Natalie's pupils narrowed. She blinked.

"Not when I knew."

"But before?" Christine pressed.

Natalie bunched her hands into her pillow, her body once again rigid and upright. Destler glared at Christine, then brought his attention back to Natalie. "It's okay. It's all right. Did you take something, before you knew?"

"I did what they said was right," Natalie said in a glassy whisper.

"What do you mean?" Destler asked.

"They gave it to me."

Christine couldn't take it anymore. "Where did you get the drugs, Natalie?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." The girl seemed to crumple in on herself.

"We're trying to help you," Christine said.

But before she could insist any further, they heard the back door open and shut. It was the second girl, Hannah Briar, waddling under the weight of her pregnancy, with one greasy paper bag in each hand.

"Oh," Hannah said. She stopped in the doorway between kitchen and living room.

"Welcome, Ms. Briar," Destler said. "We were planning to visit you later. How lucky that you've joined us."

"I was just dropping off stuff for Natalie. But I'll leave. Okay?"

"You're not supposed to be here," Natalie hissed.

"She's right," Hannah said. "My moms wants me home. So I'd better go. I'll just leave this on the table."

Destler stood and gestured to Hannah, beckoning her toward the empty couch cushion. "No. Why don't you stay and chat with us for a while. Rest your feet."

Christine glared at Destler in disbelief. This girl was a minor, so far clear of any accusation of wrongdoing. They couldn't just bombard her. It was bad enough they'd questioned Natalie while her parents weren't home.

"We're with the FBI," Christine blurted. "We're just talking to Natalie about her pregnancy."

Natalie and Hannah exchanged glances.

"So, you two are close?" Christine asked. "It's probably nice, having a friend who understands what you're going through."

Hannah blanched. "Yea. I think I'll go."

But before she could turn to leave, Erik called to her again, wrapped her up in that tender cocoon. Even Christine found herself unable interrupt him. Though her mind thrashed against her skull, she felt incapable of opening her mouth. She could only sit and listen as he asked his same questions, her mind suddenly desperate to capture the voice's every note. She hardly heard Hannah give almost the exact same answers. The same tree, the same vibrations. Cold then warm. Beneath the oppressive, cottony calm, Christine felt sick. She wanted to scream. And she wanted to lie back and bask in that voice forever. But then she was walking, one foot after the other, walking weightlessly to the front door, two steps behind Destler's dark frame.

Say goodbye, Christine, a voice whispered in her ear. A singsong tenor.

And, to her horror, Christine heard herself say goodbye.

She didn't fully return to herself until they were in the car, speeding along the town's main road.

"What the hell was that!" she yelled, her voice strained and unfamiliar.

"I don't know what you mean," Erik said. "I thought that went very well. Two birds with one stone. Thank you for letting me handle the questions."

"No! Don't play innocent with me! You hypnotized those poor girls. You hypnotized me!"

"I was simply talking."

She dug for her cell phone. "I'm going to call Assistant Director Kahn and report you right now. How dare you!"

Destler swerved the car to the side of the road.

"What the hell!" Christine screamed. She wanted to beat him over the head with her phone and drive him back to the hospital herself. Not that he would deserve medical care!

"Stop. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry." From behind the mask, his eyes beat into hers. He was gripping the steering wheel. "Don't call Kahn. Not now."

She felt herself panting. "Why? Why shouldn't I? They hired me to tell them you're a lunatic, and you've made my job really, really easy."

"I'm used to working on my own." He seemed to search for words. "My voice…has a strange effect on people."

"No kidding!" she shouted.

"But, it's not hypnotism. It's simply…persuasion."

"Ha! And you thought it was appropriate to 'persuade' me? So you could coerce two teenagers into telling you what you want to hear?"

"I didn't force them to say anything. Those were all their own words."

"Just like you didn't force me to say 'goodbye.' How did you do that?"

He sighed. "I can throw my voice. It's a useful talent." He rubbed his hands over the steering wheel. "But I didn't force you to say anything. I merely suggested it, and you wanted to do what I asked."

"I'll be sure to pass that along to Kahn." She lifted her cell phone.

"No!"

Christine scowled at him, waiting for his excuse.

"This case…this case is important to me. I swear, I'll never do that again."

"I don't have much reason to believe your word," Christine shot back.

Destler sighed again. "I know. I got carried away. I know you can't understand, but the girls might be key to something enormous. Something truly remarkable. Did you hear those stories? Nearly identical accounts of abduction, from the same exact spot, both resulting in pregnancy." His voice was growing more and more excited, almost frantic. "And, if the second fetus has the full nine months to develop, it might come out differently. We need to see what these infants look like whole. Then we'll have something to work with."

Christine looked at his eyes and then, as if for the first time, his mask. Perhaps it was the first time in the hours they'd been together that she really studied its hard lines, its perfect symmetry. Such an elegant nose. She wondered what it was like to breathe through air holes punched into leather. She wondered what he was hiding. She thought of the baby on the operating table, its exposed, graying tongue. Exhaustion washed over her, along with the tug of some hazy flicker of sadness. She closed her eyes and leaned back into her chair.

"Fine. Alright," she groaned.

She heard him exhale.

"But," she warned, "if you ever do that to me again, I'll report you in a heartbeat."

"Understood," he said.

She opened her eyes and watched them pull back onto the road. "Those girls weren't abducted, Destler. Everything they described makes perfect sense when you consider the substances they were almost certainly abusing. Or, at least that Natalie was almost certainly abusing."

"They said that someone told them to take something. They were instructed."

"Yes. Probably the dealer, or worse, the person who drugged them and assaulted them. A human man. It's the clear, logical explanation."

Destler kept his eyes on the road. Christine realized she didn't know where he was taking her. Fear bubbled below her belly button.

"Tomorrow, we're going to visit those woods."

"Tomorrow?"

"We're staying in town tonight. At the local motel."

"What! I didn't bring anything with me. No toothbrush, no change of clothes."

"You'll know better next time."

Before she could stop herself, Christine rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't push it if I were you."

"No," Destler said, unexpectedly gentle. "Don't worry, you have your own room."

Christine snorted. "I should hope so."

Destler's jaw tightened and released, so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it. They rode in silence for a mile or so.

"Thank you," Destler said.

Christine watched his gloves on the steering wheel. "I feel like I'm going to regret this." She tried to make it sound like a joke.

His mouth twisted into something between grin and grimace. "I wouldn't be surprised if you do."

They didn't speak as the car bounced into the motel parking lot, or as the petrified receptionist handed over their keys. When they reached their adjacent doors, they nodded to one another and murmured goodnight, though the sun was still staining the sky above them.

And later, as she crawled between the scratchy bed sheets in her underwear, Christine swore she heard a violin, slow and mournful and muffled, like a buried memory of loss weeping its way back to consciousness only to evaporate, again and again, just beyond her reach. She closed her eyes, unwilling to cry, and allowed the specter to play her into a bewildered sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Apologies for the long wait! I was traveling all summer, including an amazing week in Paris and a ballet at the Garnier! This is a bit of a filler chapter, but I thought we could get a little more of Christine's inner world here...especially because we will likely be making a shift...

Thank you all for the reviews so far!

* * *

Christine answered her cell phone still half asleep, dizzied by her spine's jolt upright and the daylight cracking around a door why was a white door at the foot of her bed and the angles of the shadows were all wrong and the shock of air conditioning against her naked chest, but not completely naked, why had she slept in her bra? She jerked the sheets to her throat before realizing that she was alone, alone in a hotel room with two queen-sized beds, and the person talking to her was miles away, at the hospital, tending to one of the girls, Hannah, the second one, the second baby, she was in the hotel room because of the babies, and now Hannah was in labor.

"Does the fetus have a heartbeat?" Christine heard herself ask as her body threw itself out of bed. She needed to get to the hospital. She needed to put on her clothes.

"She's just checked in. We don't know yet," the nurse said.

Slacks and blazer hung up in the closet. Good. Where was her shirt? Christine remembered scrubbing the armpits of her blouse. The armpits of her camisole. She'd hung them over the shower rod to dry.

"I appreciate the call. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Well, we can't let you into the delivery room. I just thought you'd want…"

"We're on our way. Thanks."

Christine yanked her camisole over her head. Of course her blouse had slipped and crumpled at the base of the tub. Gripping her cellphone between her teeth, she shoved her arms into her wrinkled sleeves, juggled her blazer and briefcase and shoes, and, one hand buttoning her blouse, lunged for the front door. Her forehead nearly collided with Destler's raised fist.

"Jesus!" She yelled, muffled by her phone.

"We have to go. Right now."

Christine abandoned her buttons and took the phone from her mouth. Destler had already turned toward the car. "I was about to tell you the same thing," she said, blinking at the rising sun.

"We'll find her in the woods, I'm sure of it," Destler said.

Christine swung into the passenger seat and let her things fall between her feet. "What? The hospital told me Hannah just checked in, just five minutes ago."

"Hannah? What are you talking about?"

"I just got a call. Hannah is in labor."

Destler swerved out of the parking lot. "I got a call, too. Natalie is missing."

"Shit," Christine hissed. She fastened a few more buttons and contorted to pull on her blazer without elbowing Destler in the temple.

"It's so obvious," Destler murmured. "At the same time. Of course. Doesn't sound like a coincidence, does it?"

"I don't know," Christine sighed as she bent over to open her briefcase. "Maybe Natalie is trying to sneak to the hospital, to her friend."

"Wouldn't that be charming."

"Right, how absurd of me to not jump straight to coordinated abduction."

"But you got there now. Good work. Did you sleep in? Don't forget to pack your gun."

Christine grit her teeth. She made a show of slipping her gun into place. "It's six in the morning. I don't sleep in a suit. Or armed." She glanced at his stiff shift, his pristine tie. "But maybe you do."

She watched Destler's shoulders tense. "I don't sleep," he said.

Christine stifled a laugh. "Of course you don't."

But, he wasn't laughing. Again, the air between them had grown taut, and Christine felt the pinch of fear at the nape of her neck. It was a bright, blue day outside, and his mask looked somehow blacker, as though he'd dipped it in ink. Or polished it. Christine mentally scolded herself for her dramatics. It made sense that he would polish it. In fact, every garment on his body looked freshly pressed and shined, even the black gloves on the steering wheel. There wasn't a trace of stubble on his expose, pale chin. She watched a vein pulse in his neck.

She knew he was right to go after the missing girl first. There was little they could do in the hospital. She was a doctor, certainly, but birth and neonatal care weren't far up on her list. Although she'd felt a pang of sorrow for the dead, deformed infant, she wasn't normally moved by newborns and toddlers. It was one of the things she and Raoul couldn't ever agree on. He seemed so convinced that she would change her mind. She did her best to avoid the topic. Not that they'd talked this past week. More than a week, now. She'd forgotten to call. And, even when she remembered, it never seemed like the right time.

Christine realized the car was slowing to a crawl, then a near silent stop. They'd pulled off the road, onto a shaded patch of dry, brown grass. Further ahead, the grass gave way to rich brown soil, ferns, and trees. Dense, protective trees.

"We'll have to walk," Destler said. "Based on what's happened this morning, I think we might be expected."

"Agent Destler, I agree that we should take precautions. But, if we really are approaching aliens, how is tip-toeing going to help us?" Christine said.

Destler looked at her, eyes narrowed. She thought she saw a smirk. "You never know."

"If Natalie is in these woods, I'm afraid she's in very human danger. So tip-toeing it is."

Destler moved to open his door, but hesitated. "I'm not used to working with a partner."

"So you've said."

"If I disappear, don't call for me. I promise, even when you can't see me, I'm right there."

"You have to be kidding me. What, are you a ghost now? Transparent at will?"

"I'll try to keep you informed. But I can't promise I won't forget."

"But what if I need your help? Or you need mine?"

"If you find yourself in need of me, try humming something."

Christine pinched the bridge of her noise. "Humming."

"Yes." Destler swung his door open. "I'll hear you. As for the other thing, I don't need help."

Christine sat for a moment, containing her desire to simultaneously laugh and roar. She watched Destler's thin frame move toward the trees. Contrary to what he'd insisted, she was growing more and more certain that he needed a lot of help.

"Your shirt is crooked," Destler called.

"Shit," Christine murmured. He was right. She'd placed all the wrong buttons in all the wrong holes. How had he known? Was he watching her as he drove? The thought of his yellow eyes following her fingers, resting on ribcage, her breastbone, twisted between her lungs.

"You could have warned me sooner," she snapped, trotting after him as she brought herself back into alignment. The dead grass crunched under her feet.

He brought one gloved finger to his thin lips. "Quiet now."

Christine rolled her eyes, trying to quell the blush rising up to her eyebrows. She hated that she blushed, even now, as an adult, as a doctor, as an FBI agent! How childish, this tell. He would think he knew her now. Or at least think her clumsy, a stranger to whatever cool control he managed to drape over his shoulders. Even when his excitement verged on mania, as it had yesterday in the car, still it seemed that he just knew better. He had confidence in his convictions. He had the follow through.

She wondered, with a start, if he'd somehow watched her earlier. If he had somehow known to wait until she was dressed before knocking on her door. If he hadn't trusted her enough to leave her alone. Did he know she'd slept with her bra on out of fear he would watch her? Had he seen her debate sleeping in her shirt, only to convince herself she was being ridiculous? Did he know that, for some inexplicable reason, sleeping so bare had felt daring? That the foreign sheets against her navel gave her a thrill?

Christine stopped herself, churning with shame. How embarrassing to admit she'd never slept alone in a hotel room before. That's all this was. Little girl on the big case – how foolish she seemed to herself. She was giving Destler too much credit. Too little credit. He didn't care what she slept in anymore than he cared what she thought about the case. Soon, she assured herself, she would be just as comfortable in the field. And, in some cases, the literal field. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. Even her most sensible heels weren't exactly made for this.

They walked on for a while. Fifteen minutes, then twenty. As they journeyed into the cluster of trees, Christine felt her sense sharpen. The sound of her own breathing faded into the background. She could hear the swish of Destler's pants legs as they dragged along dried twigs and leaves. She could see the ants lining a tree trunk at her shoulder and the roots underneath her feet, both at once. Every movement had depth, significance, threat. She could feel Destler's tension radiating from him. His excitement. In the distance ahead, beyond an empty creek bed, the sunlight grew denser, brighter. She saw the light take shape – a clear circle of soil, a rim of withered trees. And, just a few feet away, the carcass of a burned redwood, with a charred cave for a trunk. Just as the girls had described. Destler turned over his shoulder and smiled, his top lip peeling up over four straight, white teeth. Christine suppressed a shudder. She'd almost forgotten what she was looking for. A human, certainly. Humans. She remembered, suddenly, to feel a little bit afraid.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik did not want a partner. He did not want to hear the soft crunch of her high heels against the dried leaves and twigs scattered between the trees. He did not want to hear the whistle of her breath, growing faster and faster as they approached their target, the hollowed out tree where he was sure some sign, some clue hid. He did not want to feel her over his shoulder, feel the fear and anxiety pulsing around her body, disturbing the calm, still air he needed to concentrate. A partner would only hold him back. A partner would ruin everything.

It was a cruel trick, he thought, for Kahn to assign this girl to the X-Files. A girl, certainly. At least ten years his junior, skilled in medicine, apparently, but certainly ill-equipped to cope with the dangers of the field. She'd already been so gentle with the pregnant girl. The good cop. Not that "bad" was a sufficient term for one such as him. Monster, freak, demon. These were more fitting, and he had heard them all since the moment he was conscious. And yet, Kahn had paired him up with a naïve, bright-eyed, beautiful girl.

He didn't mean to notice she was beautiful. But he was observant, and it was a fact.

He'd never seen a woman get dressed before.

He shook the thought from his mind. She'd been dressed, he reminded himself. She'd just buttoned her shirt. If that was enough to distract him, he was more pathetic than he realized. He would not let this girl disrupt his focus. Yes, in the car, he'd been surprised when she'd confronted him, yelled at him, criticized him for using his voice. He'd been almost impressed. Why wasn't she more afraid? But, if she continued to question him, he would have to humor her, and then do what needed to be done anyway. He'd spent his life honing his attention, building up the right walls until he had no way to go but forward, to the truth.

She would not get in his way.

The baby hadn't looked like him. But it had hardly looked like a member of the human race. There could still be an answer here.

"There's nothing here," the girl said, in what she probably thought was a whisper. Erik whipped around and brought his finger to his lips, accidentally tapping the lower edge of his mask. Gestures like this always made him acutely aware of the mask—its weight, the moisture of sweat and breath, the limits of his peripheral vision. He cursed inwardly.

"Agent Destler, this is a waste of time," she said, louder now.

And he heard the faintest click, muffled by the leaves, so quiet that he doubted Daaé could hear. His sense of hearing was just another one of his peculiarities. One was not supposed to hear the mechanisms of a hidden trap preparing to spring.

In the same moment, he saw that the field was not just a field. Further on, behind the hollowed out stump, the leaves were rustling, and he could see glimpse of metal. There was something large there, tucked in a hidden ditch, covered with leaves to look like just another part of the forest floor. And then he heard something snap.

But before he could alert her, they were already in motion—her, leaping to the side with astonishing grace and speed; him, jumping up, seizing the rope net springing up from the ground, swinging himself up and into the tree branches above. He had warned her he might disappear. And if there was a to be an ambush, he would have the element of surprise.

He looked down and saw, to his surprise, that Daaé hadn't fallen over or fumbled. She was standing upright, her gun aimed in her outstretched hand, pointed at a thick, disheveled stranger. It was a man. Erik cursed inwardly again. Of course it was a man. But that didn't explain the thing under the leaves. He had seen metal, certainly. Something silver.

But, now there was the problem of the man. And he doubted there would be just one. He scanned the ground below, frustrated by the foliage blocking his view. His best bet, he decided, would be to keep his eye on Daaé and intervene when the first man attacked or an accomplice appeared, whichever came first.

If he were being honest, he wanted to see what Daaé would do. Could do.

Not a very good partner, putting her to the test that way. But, he'd never asked for a partner, had he? This was on Kahn.

"It was a mistake to come out here all on your own, miss," the man said, his voice raspy and wet. "These woods aren't a place for lady detectives in heels."

"I'm a federal agent, and if you take one more step forward, I won't hesitate to shoot," Daaé said. Erik noted the steadiness of her voice, betrayed by a brief quiver on that final world. Had she ever shot someone, he wondered.

"Will you now? Shoot an unarmed citizen just out for a walk?"

Daaé didn't waver. "What have you done with Natalie?"  
The man laughed. He took a step closer. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Daaé stepped backward. Erik sighed. How predictable. She'd just taught her enemy that she wouldn't follow through, that he had the upper hand in their dance around the clearing. Erik tensed. He reached into the lining of his suit jacket and found the tiny bump that marked his hiding place. He pulled the lasso slowly, careful not elbow the branches behind him.

"I'm not dumb, lady," the man snarled. "Where's your partner?"

"You're looking at it," she wiggled the gun. It looked clumsy, though Erik imagined she was going for tough. Still, he appreciated her quick, easy lie.

Then Erik heard threes noises simultaneously: the snap of the second trapped rigged beneath Daaé's feet, boots rushing through leaves, and a thick female moan seeping up from the metal something tucked in the ditch. At once, he knew that the man's accomplice had appeared, rushing full speed toward Daaé's back as netting appeared beneath her feet. Erik watched as Daaé dove to the side, her ankles grazing the netting, clearing the trap milliseconds before it swooped her into the air. As she dove, she shot, and the first man folded to the ground, screaming and clutching his shin. Moving with unexpected ferocity, she swung her arm back and smashed her gun into the second man's face, once twice.

Erik couldn't remember the last time he'd been so pleasantly surprised. As he watched her display of athleticism, he nearly chastised himself for his misjudgment. So the girl could take of herself. He would take care of the moan.

He made his silent way down the tree and to the ground. It didn't take long to feel the soil turn to metal under his feet, and he kicked the layers of leaves aside until he discovered a large, cloudy skylight.

So he'd come all this way to find a camping trailer hidden in the woods. A filthy, completely earthbound camping trailer. What a waste. Another humiliating waste.

The moaning grew loader as he leaned down. A heavy makeshift bolt locked the skylight from the outside. Scoffing, he pulled a thin leather satchel from the lining of his jacket and selected the most suitable pick. In less than a minute, he'd sprung the lock, pulled opened the skylight, and found his footing on the aluminum ladder that led into the dark, rank hole. He saw Natalie immediately, stretched out on a filthy cot, unconscious and groaning as she vomited into the bucket someone had so thoughtfully set beneath her. Just behind her, on the bottom level of the trailer's foldout bunk bed, he saw two other young females, their faces pallid and slack. Erik gritted his teeth and scanned the rest of the trailer, his feline eyes taking in the filth crammed in every corner—pill bottles, needles, beakers, and glass pipes. A junkie's pathetic approximation of a lab, and nothing more. He'd been sent here for nothing. Again and again, nothing, nothing, nothing. He wondered if the past two days had been Khan's idea of a joke.

He felt each girl's pulse. They would all survive. The color would return to their cheeks, and their families would forgive them, and they would once again find their places in the world above. He could already hear the ambulance sirens approaching. Stealing himself against the unbearable wailing, Erik climbed up the ladder and through the skylight alone, content to let someone else haul those wasted bodies up out of the dark.

* * *

Hours and yards of paperwork later, the agents drove back to D.C. in silence. Daaé leaned her head against the passenger window, her eyes closed as though she were asleep. All the better. Erik could indulge his bitter thoughts in peace.

When he'd returned to the clearing, he'd found both disheveled men handcuffed, slumped against a tree. The second man had been unconscious, his right temple and jaw swelling purple. Daaé had crouched over the first attacker, her blazer abandoned, one hand aiming her gun at this shoulder while the other tightened a makeshift tourniquet around his bleeding shin. The sleeve of her blouse, Erik had realized slowly. She'd stopped this scum's bleeding with the sleeve of her blouse.

"I don't know if you realize, but I can hear you grumbling to yourself."

Erik returned to the car, the road ahead.

"I thought you were sleeping."

"I was trying." She straightened, stretched her mismatched arms over the dash. "Your muttering kept leaking into my dreams."

"Next time, bring earplugs."

Erik felt her turn toward him, her eyes so close, so inescapable in the tight confines of the car. She must be mocking him, wondering how she'd found herself tied to this incompetent excuse for an agent, sent to do work the most bumbling police officer could accomplish. She'd been right from the start. It had just been people, just filthy, selfish people ruining lives as they always did, rotting their brains and bodies with chemicals. How could it have been anything but drugs. He'd been the excess baggage, not her. How disgusted she must be.

"I'm sorry you didn't find what you were looking for." Her voice was gentle. "But we saved those girls. And those horrible men are going to prison, and whatever awful cocktail they were trying to create will be off the streets."

Now she was coddling him. He had been right. She would be his babysitter, chasing him from place to place until he tired himself out and she could move on.

"You know, when she came too, Natalie confessed that she'd gone back on her own.

She wanted to go back to space, she said. She really believe those men could take her there."

"She's a fool."

"She was brainwashed." Daaé tapped her fingernails on the dash, sending tendons flickering through her bare forearm. "Abused. And so young."

Erik grunted. "For all we know, she was lying to protect them. This whole mess was a waste of our time."

"We didn't know that until we knew."

She was trying to console him. Why, Erik couldn't fathom.

A stretch of silence passed between them.

"You left me alone with those assholes," Daaé said softly.

"I was there," Erik said. "You didn't need my help."

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik watched her rub her bare arm.

"You did well today," he added.

She grinned. "Thank you."

"But I wouldn't have worked so hard to save him."

"I don't want to kill them. I want to bring them to justice."

She was so innocent it hurt. So she truly cared about the wellbeing of even these most repulsive members of the human race. He wondered what she would think of the lives he'd extinguished with his lasso alone.

She cleared her throat. "My whole life, I've had men doubting me, questioning my skills as a doctor, as an agent. So thank you…for trusting me today."

This was not the reaction he'd expected. Certainly she should be angry with him for disappearing as he had. He hadn't trusted her at all. At best, he'd taken a sick satisfaction in testing her.

Poor, simple, sweet girl. As though the habits of normal men had any sway over his behavior. As though he'd ever given anyone the benefit of the doubt. Still, as he let her thanks linger in the air, Erik felt an unfamiliar nagging at the pit of his stomach. But why tell her the truth? He didn't trust her and he would never trust her. He would never trust anyone, just as no one would ever trust him.

"And no jab in return!" Daaé chirped, smiling out the windshield. "Look at how far we've come."

Erik turned on the car stereo and strained to keep his grumbling firmly inside his head.


	5. Chapter 5

That night, Erik returned to his dark apartment alone. He lived, if one could call it that, in a finished basement studio, beneath one of the less desirable condominiums on the edge of the city. Here, people kept to themselves and didn't ask questions, which suited him. He had no desire to live around the false gleam of politicians and ambitious government peons, especially not those who wished to network with every waking breath.

He kept his space sparsely furnished, with a secondhand futon that he rarely bothered to make into a proper bed, a cluttered desk, and one true extravagance—his upright piano. Looking around the blank, dim room, he kicked his shoes against the wall, tossed his briefcase to the floor, and hung his blazer on the closet doorknob. He would hang it in the actual closet eventually, probably. But for now, he wanted to savor the silence. At last, after two cramped days, he was alone.

The solitude was familiar, and after so many years, he had expertly numbed the loneliness that once accompanied it. He spent his days looking over his shoulder, but in his home, the only shadows were his own. It was a comfort. A comfort that, by the end of each day navigating the stares and insipid expectations of the other agents, he'd rightfully earned.

And now his freedom was further threatened. Certainly, he'd never been able to secure the liberties he'd sought from the bureau. He still had regulations, reports, and meetings with the higher ups, primarily Kahn, because thankfully, no one else really cared what he was getting up to with his "fairytales" and "boogeymen." He'd tried to become a ghost to them. But the arrival of Daaé meant he was under new scrutiny. He would be monitored and he would be followed. And she would be there, every single day, turning on the lights in the basement office and chattering about teamwork. He poured himself a glass of bourbon. As he removed his mask to drink with greater ease, the same thought that had been circling within him shouted again. _This would be the way to scare her off. Just show her your face, and you'll be on your own again._

But he knew it would only buy him time before they discovered a replacement, potentially someone incompetent and even more prone to morality. He would not show his poor excuse for a face to every new agent in DC.

Before he could slip into a distasteful bout of self-pity, his phone rang. Careful to avoid catching his reflection in the screen, he lifted his cell phone to his ear.

"Kahn," he said. "I'm off the clock at the moment."

"That's not how this works or has ever worked, my friend," Kahn laughed.

Erik rolled his eyes and took a gulp of his drink. Had everyone caught some virus of forced camaraderie? It came as no surprise that he was the one immune.

"What do you want, Daroga."

"Never one for small talk, were you?"

"No." If the old man didn't hurry up, he would become truly annoyed.

"I simply wanted to check in about your new partner. Off the record, a bit." On the other end of the line, Kahn cleared his throat. "You both survived your first mission. Well done."

"It was an absolute farce. The police in that town must be utter dimwits to think the case merited our involvement."

"Now I recall that investigating those particular abduction reports was your idea."

"There should have never been reports. A moron could trip over that drug den."

"There are many drug dens and few resources. I for one am glad Daaé had a soft ball thrown her way. How was she then?"

Erik leaned against his kitchen counter. "My opinion doesn't seem to matter much."

"Don't be a baby, Erik."

"First names, 'off the record.' Now what's done and what isn't done?"

Kahn gave a long sigh. "You are determined to be impossible."

Erik let the bourbon wash against the back of his teeth. "The girl is adequate."

"I know you're unhappy, but you could probably benefit from a good cop. Someone to engage with people, build their trust."

"Are you saying that people aren't my strong suit? I'm hurt, Daroga."

"Hypnotism doesn't count. In fact, you really shouldn't be doing it, and you know that very well," Kahn said.

"You're lucky I don't put words in your mouth right now."

"Maybe she'll be a help."

"She'll slow me down."

"She's highly trained, extremely bright."

"I like to work alone."

To Erik's horror, Kahn chuckled through the phone. "Oh, Erik. I know you think that."

Erik tightened his grip on his glass. "Good night, old man. I do not appreciate the call."

He hung up and drained his drink. He would have that old fool pretending to know him better than he knew himself. For each of his thirty-five years, life had taught him all he needed to know about other people. Kahn was bearable. Kahn had gotten him this job, given him the opportunity to find the answers he'd sought for so long.

But everyone else? They could keep their distance.

They generally preferred it that way as well.

"People," Erik spat to his empty kitchen. How sure he was that he was hardly one of them. He had no parents, no lineage, no bloodline. He could do things no other member of the human race could, especially with that cursed voice. And who would look at his dead face, his glowing eyes, his wasted body, and count him among mankind?

No one.

He poured another glass of bourbon. He was so tired of their rules, their ideals, their cowardice. But if he was to find the truth, perhaps there was no other way.

When had he first suspected his true origins? Perhaps he'd been eight, pouring over the library books he'd spread across his squeaky cot while everyone else took their little field trip to the park. Even though staying behind doubled the already high chance that the security guards would find a reason to beat him, he did not go on field trips, out in the world, where people would gawk and point and cower. No one invited him twice, not even the kindest of the social workers, the one who snuck him tapes and a plastic walkman. Even as a child, Erik realized that he did not belong with the others. He did not belong anywhere.

But, suddenly, in those science books, in those pictures of galaxies and lunar soil, he found the seed of an idea. Perhaps his freakishness had a source. Perhaps he really didn't belong here, on this Earth, among men.

Perhaps he was something else.

As time went on and his theories solidified and his housing became less and less stable, he became increasingly certain that he was never born. Someone, something had created him. For instance, his belly button was a strange hollow slash, nothing like those he'd seen in medical books. And, even stranger, although his memories of early childhood were hazy, when he strained, he could sense the surgical masks and bright lights, the tubing and tests. As a preteen, he only visited the doctor—his "special" doctor—once a year, but this was still much more often than the other children in the home. Much more. And they'd drawn so much blood, hadn't they? What had they been testing him for? As an adult, he'd pulled every string he could think of to search for those medical files he was sure existed. Nothing nothing nothing.

Erik sat down at his piano with a thud. Although they were now infused with imagery of later horror, the medical nightmares had not softened with time. He still woke up panting, drenched in sweat, convinced that some strange hand was plunging a scalpel into the gaping cavity that should be his nose.

Of course he had tried to run away from the pathetic string of pathetic homes. But every time, they had caught him. When he fought, they'd locked him in storage closets, basements, and backyard sheds, different prisons hidden in the shadows of different foster homes. If he was lucky, and the social workers and guardians weren't prone to corporal punishment, he would sometimes spend weeks in a small, windowless room with nothing but his own thoughts and dreams of music. Always, he could erect palaces of music in his mind. Even when a particularly violent guardian made a habit of lashing twelve-year-old Erik's shoulders and spine, after the first moments of searing pain, he could escape into his imagined symphonies.

In some ways, he was grateful to the man with the whip. The year he lived in that house, he suffered enough debasement to finally convince him it was time to devote his intelligence to an escape that would stick. He was finally tall enough, and strong enough, and scarred enough to manage it.

Shaking himself out of his too-frequent journey into the past, Erik ran his fingers along the piano keys, surprising himself with a new melody. He didn't know how his anomalies had added up to his supernatural gift for music, but he was grateful. He would force himself to endure this life until he found out who he was. But until they, he could still cherish this blissful reprieve.

He played well into the night.

* * *

The council had debated the girl. But, all said, she was hardly a threat. She would serve as a distraction, slant his anger and suspicion just so. He would indulge that troublesome penchant for rebellion on their terms. They had to strike a fine balance with the monster. This they knew. On this, they all agreed.

He was much too clever to be set loose on the world. He had learned too much, and he was hungry for more.

So much like a rat scurrying through a maze.

They had to keep him entertained, even if that meant he encountered a classified curiosity or two. This was a sacrifice they were willing to make. They would give him his string of breadcrumbs—his fleeting, shallow victories.

He would never even know he was lost.


End file.
